The Project Gutenberg eBook ofEmpty chairsThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Empty chairsAuthor: Squire BancroftRelease date: May 1, 2024 [eBook #73506]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: John Murray, 1925Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMPTY CHAIRS ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Empty chairsAuthor: Squire BancroftRelease date: May 1, 2024 [eBook #73506]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: London: John Murray, 1925Credits: Al Haines
Title: Empty chairs
Author: Squire Bancroft
Author: Squire Bancroft
Release date: May 1, 2024 [eBook #73506]
Language: English
Original publication: London: John Murray, 1925
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK EMPTY CHAIRS ***
Marie BancroftMarie Bancroft
BY
SQUIRE BANCROFT
LONDONJOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.1925
FIRST EDITION ...March1925Reprinted... April 1925
Printed in Great Britain byHazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.
TOMY SON
PREFACE
These pages are mainly concerned with men and women who, in days gone by, have done my wife and me the honour to sit at our table, and have now left us. I think of their Empty Chairs from a warm corner of my heart: their friendship has brightened my life and stored my mind with rosemary.
Having already writtenRecollections, I am bound to repeat myself, so let me plead forgiveness for the besetting sin of advanced years.
My apology for the book is its last chapter.
S. B.
CONTENTS
I.King Edward VII
II.Place aux Dames
III.The Church
IV.The Law
V.Painting: Sculpture: Music
VI.Literature
VII.More Men of Mark
VIII.The Stage: I
IX.The Stage: II
X.One other Empty Chair
EMPTY CHAIRS
"Blessed are the peacemakers"
All who were born, as I was, in 1841 must count it an honour to have come into the world in the same year as King Edward the Peacemaker. And the honour appeals especially perhaps to one who owes many of his friends and much of his happiness to the stage, for the stage has never found among Royal heads a firmer friend than was the late King; his gracious words and acts went far to conquer a decaying prejudice.
The first time that either my wife or I met or had speech with the Prince of Wales (as he was for many years) was so far back as in 1868, when he, with the present Queen Alexandra, attended an early performance of one of Robertson's comedies during our managerialcareer at the old Prince of Wales's Theatre (which he had graciously given his permission, through the Lord Chamberlain, to name after him). On this occasion the Prince came for the first time behind the scenes, and honoured our little green-room with a visit. His love of exactitude in all matters of costume enabled us then, I remember, to correct a slight error in a military uniform.
His Royal Highness was accompanied by Frederic Leighton, then young and handsome, who ten years later was elected President of the Royal Academy; and by Carlo Pellegrini, whose caricatures, bearing the now historic signature "Ape," were then attracting both attention and admiration. The celebrated "originals," I imagine, have now all passed away. Lord Chaplin was the last survivor of the unpublished "set" which enrich the Marlborough Club.
The weather was foggy, and during the performance became so dense that at the close the streets were dangerous. The Royal carriages, after great difficulty, arrived safely, surrounded by a body of police, bearing torches, who escorted our visitors to Marlborough House. In all the years of our management the Prince never came again without asking, upon his arrival, to beinformed at which interval it would be convenient for my wife to receive his visit to the green-room.
A domestic drama
One of these visits to our theatre caused, indirectly, the plot of a domestic drama.
The Royal box was constructed by throwing two private boxes into one, and on a certain Friday night news reached the theatre that it was required by the Prince for the following evening. This was before the days of telephones. Both boxes had been taken—one at the theatre, the other at a librarian's in Bond Street—and nothing remained unlet but a small box on the top tier. Not to disappoint the Prince of Wales, it was decided that every effort should be made to arrange matters. The box which had been sold at the theatre was kindly given up by the purchaser, and a visit to Bond Street fortunately disclosed the name of the possessor of the other. The gentleman was a stockbroker; so a messenger was at once sent to his office in the City, only to find that he had just gone. After a great deal of difficulty our invincible messenger succeeded in learning his private address, where, on arrival, he was told that "Master went to Liverpool on business this morning, and won't be back till Monday."
The door of a room leading from the hallwas opened at this moment, and a portly lady appeared upon the scene.
"Went to Liverpool!" echoed the messenger. "Nonsense! He's going to the Prince of Wales's Theatre this evening."
The lady now approached, and asked if she could be of any service. The messenger repeated his story and stated his errand. The lady smiled blandly, and said that, if the small box on the upper tier were reserved, matters no doubt would be amicably arranged in the evening, and so that man went away rejoicing.
At night, not long before the play began, the gentleman who had in vain been sought so urgently arrived in high spirits, accompanied by a lady, handsome but not portly. When the circumstances were explained to him, he agreed to use the smaller, and upstairs box.
There ended our share in the transaction; but hardly were the unfortunate man and his attractive companion left alone than the portly lady reached the theatre and asked to be shown to Box X. She was conducted there; the door was opened. Tableau! What explanation was given as to the business trip to Liverpool we never knew, or whether the third act of this domestic drama was afterwards played at the Law Courts before "the President."
Grave illness
It was in the winter of 1871 that the Prince fell seriously ill from typhoid fever. The national excitement reached so high a pitch and the craving for the latest news of his condition grew so great, that the bulletins from Sandringham were read out in the theatres between the acts, and the National Anthem and "God Bless the Prince of Wales" were nightly played by the various orchestras.
The Prince was hardly expected to survive from hour to hour, but when reassuring bulletins were issued I vividly remember the relief they caused. The extraordinary manifestation of loyalty to the Throne and attachment to the Prince which this illness set ablaze culminated on the day of General Thanksgiving, when London wasen fête, and Queen Victoria, with her convalescent son, went to the service held at St. Paul's. My wife and I were fortunate in being invited by the Lord Chamberlain to represent the stage—young managers as we then were—at the Cathedral. I shall never forget the effect when the great west door was thrown open and a loud voice announced "The Queen." The imposing ceremony, the aspect of the building, with its splendid assemblage of people, have only since been equalled at the Jubilee Thanksgiving of 1887 in Westminster Abbey, at which we werealso present. On the day which followed I remember being at the corner of Pall Mall and St. James's Street while the decorations were being taken down. I said to a police constable: "You fellows must have had a long and very tiring day, yesterday." "Yes, sir, we had," the man replied, "and we'd willingly go through it all for her again to-morrow."
I also recall an amusing incident which took place at that time in the grounds of Chelsea Hospital. There was a parade of the old Pensioners, looking as if they had stepped from the canvas of Herkomer's "Last Muster." The Prince and Princess of Wales, with other Royalties, including the Duchess of Teck, who was in a bath-chair, passed along the line, the Prince in his kindly way stopping now and then to say a pleasant word. The breast of one old man was ablaze with medals—the Prince handled them and said: "You have indeed seen a deal of service, my man." The old fellow drew himself up, saluted, and answered: "Yes, your wusshup!" The Prince controlled his amusement at the new title and passed along, but, as she was drawn after him in her chair, the Duchess did not repress the merry laughter for which she was loved by all sorts of people.
Dinners to actors
Among my treasured memories is that ofthe dinner given by the Prince at Marlborough House to the principal actors of London—one of the many acts by which he endeared himself to the theatrical profession. On this occasion I was honoured by being placed on the right-hand of our host. This was in 1882. Without having realised it, I found that I had already been the senior manager in London for some years. Thirty-eight were at table, the actors present being Henry Irving, J. L. Toole, John Hare, Charles Wyndham, Charles Coghlan, W. H. Kendal, John Clayton, David James, Arthur Cecil, Henry Neville, Lionel Brough, Hermann Vezin, George Grossmith the elder, and myself. H. J. Byron was invited, but serious illness kept him away. I am the only survivor of that happy company. Of the guests invited to meet us, Lord Lincolnshire (then known to his intimates as "Charlie Carington") alone is with us still. Lord Knollys, a charming guest, the trusted servant of three monarchs, and Sir Dighton Probyn, for so many years Queen Alexandra's devoted henchman, have both recently gone from us.
The Prince gave a similar dinner a year or two later at the Marlborough Club, and also honoured the actors by accepting an invitation to dine with them at the Garrick.
During an interval in a performance of Robertson's comedy,Ours, at the Haymarket Theatre, I was conducting the Prince to the green-room, when, on crossing the stage, there was a congested condition of some scenery. I turned to our master-carpenter, whose name chanced to be Oliver Wales, and said, "Which way, Wales?" I realised the effect of the words by an amused look on the Prince's face. My wife on that evening had taken her autograph book to the theatre to ask the Prince to add his name to it; he wrote at once, "Not 'Ours,' but Yours sincerely, EDWARD P."
My wife and I were naturally proud of the personal interest taken by King Edward in the farewell performance which we gave on our retiring from management in 1885. The Prince (as he still then was) suggested the date, in order that with the Princess of Wales he might be present. They were accompanied by the three young princesses.
On November 9th, 1891, some of the leading actors, including Hare and myself—Irving was in America at the time—went to Sandringham as a deputation, to present H.R.H. on his fiftieth birthday with a cigar and cigarette box, in gold, with the feathers mounted in brilliants, the gift of members of the theatrical profession. The Prince was greatly pleased withwhat was really a handsome present, and, to my knowledge, he never missed an opportunity, when the box was placed by his order in front of him after dinner, to say what it was and who gave it. On the occasion, after a happy luncheon, we were, as was customary, I was told, weighed in the hall, much to the annoyance of one of the party, who had a superstitious objection to the proceeding.
Alone in the storm
London was visited by violent blizzards in March 1892. On an afternoon in that month I determined to go out and face one of the worst of them. I dressed for the enterprise, and as the door of our house—then in Berkeley Square—was opened for me, a solitary pedestrian passed the portico, wearing a black Inverness cape and, with difficulty, holding up an umbrella. In spite of the driving sleet and snow I could not help noticing a remarkable resemblance borne by the passer-by, who was walking towards Piccadilly, to the Prince of Wales. I followed at short distance, and was more and more surprised by what I thought must be a striking "double." At the corner of Hay Hill the pedestrian stopped, turned round, stared at me as I was slowly approaching, and after some hesitation trudged on down Berkeley Street. By this time I felt certain it must be the Prince, so I crossed the road andcontinued my walk by the side of the wall enclosing the gardens of Lord Lansdowne and the Duke of Devonshire. As I reached the passage which divides them, the Prince again stopped and looked at me; he then crossed the slushy road with the evident intention of speaking. I advanced towards him. The Prince begged me to put on my hat and walked with me to the pavement I had left; he stood there and spoke of the recent death of the Duke of Clarence, of the grave illness of Prince Louis of Hesse, of the disastrous fire at Sandringham; since when, he said, according to an old superstition, he had known no luck, adding that he was starting that evening with the Princess for the south of France and a stay at Cap Martin, that meanwhile "he did not know what to do with himself, as they were so steeped in sorrow." After some minutes I said that I must not keep him standing longer in such weather. The Prince then shook me cordially by the hand, and said, very simply, "I am so glad to have had this talk with you." He hesitated again as I left him, then turned back and passed out of my sight up Hay Hill.
Visiting the sick
On the evening of the same day it chanced that my wife and I had been invited to a musical party given by Lady Londesborough.We took our places in a row of chairs; a few minutes later the one next to mine was occupied by the then Lord Wharncliffe, whom, as Chairman of the Beefsteak Club and in other ways, I knew. He turned to me and said: "Bancroft, if there is such a thing as a ghost, I saw one this afternoon, for as I was slithering down Hay Hill in a hansom, hanging on to the doors through the dangerous condition of the road, a man was walking on the pavement, so like the Prince of Wales, that I instinctively raised my hand to take off my hat, when I remembered that it could only be some amazing resemblance to the Prince, who never walks in the streets alone." I was able to convince him that it had been no ghost.
A few weeks afterwards I went to Monte Carlo. On my arrival I heard that Arthur Sullivan was lying very ill at Eze. I went to his villa on a broiling hot day, and was talking under the verandah with his devoted nephew, Herbert Sullivan, then a young fellow, when the sound of a carriage stopping at the gate was followed by the figure of a visitor walking up the garden path alone. I saw at once it was the Prince of Wales, who, directly he came close to us, greeted me with the words: "Very different weather from when we last met." The Prince, among other kind acts,sent his own doctor to see the sufferer, who was too ill to be allowed to receive anyone.
At that time I was much occupied by the readings of Charles Dickens'sChristmas Carol, which I gave on behalf of hospitals. A great stimulus to their success was one of the many acts of kindness which I have received from the then Prince of Wales. Soon after I started them I had the good fortune to meet the Prince, by the invitation of the late Lord Burnham, at Hall Barn, where he was staying for a shoot extending over several days. The Prince spoke to me warmly about the "Carol," and asked if I would like to give the reading at Sandringham at the coming Christmas-time, when the house would be full of guests. Needless to say, I could have wished for no greater help to any project that I had a part in.
At Sandringham
On my arrival at Sandringham I was met by Sir Dighton Probyn. We were soon joined by my host, who took a personal interest in the preparations for my evening's work. In the drawing-room, before dinner, I found among the "house-party" two old friends, Sir Charles du Plat and Sir Charles Hall. On entering, the Princess of Wales paused to look round the room; she then left the Prince's arm, advanced towards me, and most graciously welcomed me.At the table, also, were the present King and Queen. The audience for my reading was completed by invitations given to many friends and neighbours, the household, the tenants, and the servants—the ballroom being full. The reading was accompanied by laughter and applause, a special tribute being paid to my impromptu description of the memorable turkey as "real Norfolk." In the billiard-room, later in the evening, I had suitable opportunity to show the Prince the cigar-case which was given to me by Queen Victoria at Balmoral, saying that it was the first occasion on which I had carried it. The Prince at once replied, suiting the action to the word, "Perhaps you would like me to be the first to take a cigar from it?"
When in 1897 the late Marquess of Salisbury submitted to Queen Victoria that the honour of Knighthood should be conferred upon me, none of the many congratulations that my wife and I received were more charmingly or warmly expressed than those of the Prince of Wales.
It was, however, at Marienbad, where King Edward went annually to take the waters, that he might be seen at his friendliest, free from the cares of his high estate and able, as the "Duke of Lancaster," to relax something of Royalceremony; but, however unbending, the King had great unconscious dignity. Happy luncheons and pleasant dinners have I enjoyed in his company there, charmed by a perfect host, put entirely at ease by his geniality and constantly impressed by his wide knowledge and deep interest in the affairs of the world. Among fellow guests I may mention Pinero, Tree, and Hawtrey.
The one exception to "Marienbad dress" was when the King gave a dinner on the fête-day of Francis Joseph, the old Emperor; then the card bore the words, "Evening dress and decorations." I was honoured with an invitation, and that year had no tail-coat with me. A soldier friend said if his decorations, for which he had telegraphed, did not arrive in time he would lend me his "tails." After luncheon, however, I bolted up to the golf-course, hunted down Sir Edward Goschen's attaché, a charming tall fellow, and, knowing he would have to wear diplomatic uniform at the dinner, asked if he would lend me his ordinary evening coat. On the night of the ceremony the guests were assembled waiting for the King, who went the round of the half-circle with a happy word in several languages to all. His humorous salutation to me was, "A very becoming coat, Bancroft."
I recall an amusing incident told me by my neighbour at table, who was High Sheriff of his county. At a ceremony which the King had journeyed from London to perform, a provincial Mayor, after being himself presented, nervously said: "May I present Your Majesty to the Mayoress?" The King immediately replied: "Certainly; the Mayoress is generally presented to me, so it will be a novelty."
His love of precision
I have referred to King Edward's well-known love of exactitude in matters of etiquette and ceremony, and I remember a curious instance of this quality. On one of the occasions when I was His Majesty's guest, a discussion arose about the period of some incident that had been mentioned in the course of conversation; one of the guests said that it took place early in the reign of Queen Victoria.
"No," said our host, "you are mistaken; it happened towards the close of the reign of the late King."
Not for a moment or two did those present realise that by "the late King" His Majesty was referring to King William IV, who, sure enough, was strictly "the late King," although full seventy years had passed since the "sailor King" sat on the throne of England, and he haddied before anyone then at the table was born. I had occasion to notice also that King Edward was always punctilious to give his predecessors their Royal title. Should anyone, for instance, allude to "the statue of Charles I" at Charing Cross, the King would be sure to reply with a reference to "the statue of King Charles I."
In 1909, the year of the King's last visit to Marienbad, my memory for dates was appealed to at His Majesty's table with regard to the year of Lord Fisher's birth. I answered that the great little "Jacky" was born in the same year as the King and, as it happened, myself. This led to other names, all friends of our host, being similarly mentioned. I told the King that I held the Royal vintage to be a good one. He was both amused and interested, and wished the list of names to be made out for him, adding: "I must ask you all to dinner."
His end
Alas, too soon afterwards came his death—a national sorrow! King Edward impressed the world by his conduct on the throne, which he filled greatly and with a great humanity from the hour he was called to it. He was beloved by all sorts and conditions of men, who felt that when he died they had lost a great friend, the State a great servant, our countrya great King. "The King is dead: long live the King."
Of the present Prince of Wales it may be truly said, in the words of Shakespeare: "Thy noble grandfather doth live again in thee."
"For some we loved, the loveliest and the best"
It is a long cry back to 1878, when we had Jenny Lind for our guest and we had the pleasure of hearing her sing; there cannot be many people living who have listened to a trill from the throat of the "Swedish Nightingale." My wife and I first met her at Pontresina, where she was staying with her husband—"Little Otto," as we called Mr. Goldschmidt. It is difficult to describe that gifted creature—plain in feature, insignificant in figure—until she opened her lips: then everything changed—she cast a spell round her and became idealised.
The black box
I remember, too, the humour with which the great lady told and acted an amusing incident that occurred on one of her travelling operatic tours when she appeared at a different place every evening. This was not altogether lost; my wife reproduced it afterwards. All the members of the company were seated in the train except the tenor, a funny-looking littlefat man who stammered painfully when speaking, but sang without a trace of his affliction. Just on the point of starting he appeared in a state of excitement at the door of the great songstress's compartment, having discovered that a large black box which contained her wardrobe had been left behind. He hurriedly opened the door and stammered violently: "Mad-ame, Mad-ame." "Yes, yes." The poor tenor got a step further: "The b-b-b-b—" The bewildered lady cried, "What is it? What's the matter?" Still the afflicted tenor, stammering more and more, could only answer, "The b-b-b——-" "Yes, yes, yes, but what is the b-b-b—, my dear fellow?" The stammer nearly choked the wretched creature as he gasped, "The bl-bl-bl-bl——" "Sing it, sing it, for mercy's sake, sing it!" cried the diva. The tenor lapsed dramatically into recitative: "All, I fear, is lost!" "Go on, go on. What's lost?" "I fe-ar—is lost!" "Go on, tell us, go on, what's lost?" The wretched tenor struck an attitude as he sang, "The black box!" "Yes, yes, what about it?" The only answer was, "The black box!" "What of it, man?" cried the poor lady in despair. The tenor reached his highest note as he shrieked, "The black box has been for-got-t-en!" Jenny Lind fell back in her corner andmuttered: "Great Heaven! I shall have no clothes!"
The whistle sounded, the tenor was hoisted into his compartment, and the train started.
I recall another story of how when a great composer—I think it was Meyerbeer—died, a pushing musician sent a great musician the score of a funeral march, which he had written in honour of the illustrious man who had passed away, with the hope that it might be played at his burial, and asking for a candid opinion of its merits. He was rebuffed by a judgment to the effect that things would have shaped better had he himself died and Meyerbeer undertaken to compose a funeral march.
It is bewildering to contrast the modest fees earned in Jenny Lind's day, and by gifted creatures like Malibran, Grisi and Mario (the pair sang in large houses for about thirty guineas) with the fabulous figures reached by such artists as Melba, Caruso and Paderewski in recent times.
There is a pretty medallion of Jenny Lind on the walls of Westminster Abbey, and I am glad that a statue has now been erected to her memory in the capital of her native land.
Another glorious songstress, Adelina Patti, was our friend for many years. She invitedus to stay at her Welsh castle, but we could not go. She amassed wealth and also charmed the world longer than any of her rivals. It has been truly said that the harp-strings slumber until touched by a magic hand: the echo of her wonderful voice still beats in human hearts, although its music has ended in the silence that waits for us all.
"Sarah"
In this little chapter—devoted to honoured women who have been our guests—mention must be made of one so famed as Sarah Bernhardt, the first actress to receive the Legion d'Honneur. My wife and I met her, and sat by her side, at the Mansion House, the occasion being a luncheon given by the then Lord Mayor in 1879 to the members of the Comédie Française, which comprised a group of players no theatre then could equal or has ever equalled since. I recall an amusing incident which occurred at the banquet concerning two busts—one of Nelson, the other of Wellington—which prominently adorned the room we were in, called the Long Parlour. We were obliged to assure "the divine Sarah" and her angry comrades that the Lord Mayor meant no slight to them or to their country in not having the offending busts removed, and also had to defend his lordship for not wearing his robes and chain of office, and for beingunaccompanied by sword and mace bearers. Incredible, but true.
The finest piece of acting I ever saw from "Sarah" was at therépétition généralein Paris of Sardou's playFédora. She rose to great heights, and held a brilliantly composed audience under a spell and in her grasp. Among those present, I remember well, were Alexandre Dumas, Alphonse Daudet, and Georges Ohnet; Got and Coquelin; Blanche Pierson and Maria Legault.
Edward Pigott, who was then the official Reader of Plays, wrote to me:
"The English version ofFédorais an admirable piece of literary workmanship. It reads almost like an English original. The part is all Sarah. It is written exactly to her measure—that electric play of feature and gesture, that nervous intensity, that range of power and variety of accent, and sudden changefulness of mood, which belong to the feline instinct or temperament."
Later on, when I saw that great actress—so soon to be a legend, a tradition—Eleanora Duse, play inFédoraI learnt that Sardou and Sarah had left some things unthought of.
Here is a little letter from the brilliant Frenchwoman:
"BIEN CHÈRE, MADAME,
"Je vous remercie mille fois pour vos si belles roses et l'aimable lettre de Monsieur Bancroft. Je suis très heureuse que vous ayez pris plaiser à m'entendre, et très touchée que deux artistes de votre valeur m'accordent du talent.
"Veuillez me croire reconnaissante, et agréez, Madame, je vous prie, mes meilleurs sentiments.
"SARAH BERNHARDT."
Years afterwards, on the fiftieth anniversary of the great actress's first appearance on the stage, my wife was chosen to present a testimonial which had been prepared in her honour, in the presence of a remarkable gathering in which Monsieur Paul Cambon, the honoured French Ambassador to our Court for so many years, took a prominent part.
These were some of her words:
"Dear Madame Bernhardt, or, as you have so closely fastened yourself to our hearts 'with hoops of steel,' I hope you will allow me to say, dear Sarah. My words will be brief, but they come from my heart—the heart of a comrade and friend. Since my retirement no greater pleasure has befallen me than I feel at this moment, and when I was invited to performthis delightful ceremony I was proud to be remembered and to be thought worthy to have the honour of presenting this tribute to your genius; an endorsement, as it were, of the force and value of theEntente Cordialewhich so happily unites our two great countries. Your fame belongs to all the world—the homage of every land is yours. Your name will live with those of Siddons, Rachel and Ristori. You have shed lustre and glory on the beautiful art you have so long and nobly served and in which you reign supreme."
The great woman took the opportunity to repeat her opinion given to a mutual friend, Hamilton Aidé, years before, of my wife's acting as Peg Woffington.
Aimée Desclée
But great as she was, unequalled in technique, wonderful in the range of her art, perfect in her command of every tone in her beautiful language, Sarah Bernhardt was never to my mind quite free from the blemish—it may be thought heresy to say so—of being something of a show-woman. The drum was too big in her orchestra, while I always considered her to be surpassed in the reality of emotion and passion by one other woman I have seen upon the stage—Aimée Desclée. No other serious actress, to my mind, took more absolutepossession of her audience. I doubt if even Rachel could have eclipsed her. Her acting inFroufrou, her original part, was supreme. The quarrel with her sister I can best describe as a whirlwind of dramatic art in its highest form, as was the pathos with which—when she had wrecked her life and gone away with her lover—she moaned: "Une heure de colère, et voilà ou j'en suis." Only those who are now quite old can have seen Desclée. Her fame was achieved in a few brief years, as she died in the flower of youth, being little more than thirty, if my memory serves me, in 1873. When Sarah then was asked her opinion of Desclée's acting she answered, "Truth!" She made no claim to beauty, but possessed more "magnetism"—I know no better word—unclouded by exaggeration than any of her rivals. Had Desclée been spared to act for twenty years her name would have lived among the immortals.
Alexandre Dumas thus wrote of her:
"Nothing remains of what was once so dear. Let us regret this great artist, but pity not her death. She has won the rest for which she prayed. Her best reward is death. Of the details of her actual life I have told you nothing. Where was she born? How was she brought up? Where did she first appear?What became of her? What matters it at all? A woman like her has no biography. She touched our souls: and she is dead. There is her history."
Réjane
Another Frenchwoman whose name and fame give her an honoured place among the great ones, was Réjane. Our acquaintance began with a visit she paid us behind the scenes at the Haymarket when she was quite young. My wife at the time was acting the part first played by Réjane in a play by Sardou, calledOdette.
She was never a guest at our table at home, but only when we met in France. Her art was the embodiment of abiding charm inMa Cousine, inLa Vierge Folle, inMadame Sans-Gêne, and many another play. Paris loved her and she loved Paris. How they must miss each other!
She was proud of her Montmartre origin, where she passed a poor and hard-working youth, painting fans and teaching. She told the company assembled to celebrate her nomination to theLégion d'Honneur, that it was at Montmartre she learnt her art and at Montmartre, in contact with lovers of the theatre, that she perfected it.
I remember the days in London when hercarriage was drawn by a pair of Spanish mules and people would struggle for a glimpse of her fascinating, though not beautiful, face. The last time I saw Réjane was at the Queen's Hall, during the War, when she recited Émile Cammaerts's poem,Carillon, to the music written for it by the composer, Edward Elgar, who conducted it himself. All concerned seemed to be inspired and gave you out of themselves some minutes of ecstasy; just as Karsavina and Nijinsky did inThe Spectre of The Roseat Covent Garden, before the War. These are things which are yours while memory lasts.
Modjeska
A dear friend and guest was the brilliant Helena Modjeska. Like the distinguished actor, Fechter, she never quite mastered the difficulties of the English tongue, but again, as in the Frenchman, her foreign accent became a fascination. She ran the great Sarah very close inLa Dame aux Camélias. Her performance was the more spiritual: she seemed to have sacrificed purity only through passion and was ever fighting for Divine forgiveness. You almost had doubts if she could have so sinned, but none as to her salvation. My wife could give a most dramatic imitation of their different treatments of the tragic end, when with difficulty the feeble, outstretchedhands reached a table-mirror and they looked upon their dying faces. It was hard to decide if the heart-rending, pitiful wail with which the one murmured, "How changed I am!" was surpassed by the terrifying awe which slowly spread over the emaciated face of the other. Both were supreme moments in their beautiful art.
I recall an incident at a dinner given by Madame Modjeska and her husband, when the subject of an unhappy break-up of what seemed a happy marriage through an unfortunate lapse on the husband's part became the topic. The lady by my side said passionately: "That is an indiscretion, an outrage, a sin, call it what you will, I could never forgive—whoever the woman might be." She paused for a moment and added: "With one exception—Ellen Terry. Any manoughtto be forgiven."
Let me say a word about an Irish girl born at Limerick but taken to America in her childhood; the delightful, alluring Ada Rehan. She and Irving were our guests, both for the last time, together, I remember, and when they sat side by side. No words of mine could compete with those I copy, written by one who had followed Ada Rehan's art in every phase:
"The secret of her allurement was elusive. Among its elements were absolute sincerity, the manifest capability of imparting great happiness, triumphant personal beauty, touched and softened by a wistful and sympathetic sadness, and that controlling and compelling instinct, essentially feminine, which endows with vital import every experience of love, and creates a perfect illusion in scenes of fancied bliss or woe."
Gifted women
It has been a pleasant task to pay my tribute to brilliant artists of foreign birth; I do not wish to write of gifted women now before the public, but let me render homage to comrades of the stage in days gone by who were born in these isles, and who reigned in their kingdom with a splendour equal to the great of any land. That mistress of her beautiful art, Madge Kendal; the incomparable Ellen Terry; the glorious and unique Mrs. John Wood; and Marie Bancroft—the salt of the art they adorned, who, in their bright springtime and their affluent summer, filled the scene: all as distinct from one another as Raphael from Rubens, as Watts from Whistler, yet each stamping the mark of her personality on every part she played, and of whom it might be said the deaf could hear them in their eloquent faces: the blind could see themin their vibrant voices. Deep is the debt which never can be paid for the cares they lightened, for the sorrows they soothed; they dragged creatures from the books wherein they were born, making them live, their hearts beating, their pulses throbbing, and enshrined their joyousness in many grateful memories.
The mantle of the great must be of their own weaving; on other shoulders it is bound to be a misfit.
It is pleasant to have one's views confirmed; the more so in the judgment of a distinguished American man of letters whose knowledge of people connected with the stage was remarkable.
"Our age indeed has no Colley Cibber to describe their loveliness and celebrate their achievements; but surely if he were living at this hour, that courtly, characteristic, and sensuous writer—who saw so clearly and could portray so well the peculiarities of the feminine nature—would not deem the period of Marie Bancroft and Ellen Terry, of Clara Morris and Ada Rehan, of Sarah Bernhardt and Jane Hading, unworthy of his pen. As often as fancy ranges over those bright names and others that are kindred with them—a glistering sisterhood of charms and talents—the regret must arise that no literary artist with just thegallant spirit, the chivalry, the fine insight and the pictorial touch of old Cibber is extant to perpetuate their glory."
Ouida
I turn to another calling, and can say something of two distinguished women whose fame was earned as writers of fiction—Ouida (Louise de la Ramée) and Miss Braddon (Mrs. Maxwell). They were much of an age, but their careers had no other resemblance; except in their enormous vogue and hold upon the public of their day.
The name "Ouida" was a nursery corruption of Louisa. She had an English mother and a French father, but lived chiefly in Italy.
My wife and I first met her at the Langham Hotel, where she stayed when in London—as odd to look upon as she was pleasant to talk with. She had strange large eyes of a sort of dark blue and, in her white satin gown and sandalled shoes, was strangely reminiscent of mid-Victorian days. She always wore white frocks in the summer time and, as I was told, black velvet in the winter months.
We hoped Ouida might, as she earnestly wished, write a play for us, but she got no further than a title. Of her novels, if I remember rightly, quite a fairly good play wasconcocted fromMoths. She had a great appreciation of my wife, both on and off the stage, and we valued her friendship. There are few readers nowadays, I suppose, ofUnder Two Flags,Puck, orTwo Little Wooden Shoes, which engrossed the public of her time. She was proud of the fact that Bulwer Lytton read every book she wrote.
As an instance of her "style," here is a description of a young Italian peasant girl:
"The marigolds and the sunflowers had given her their ripe rich gold to tint her hair; the lupins had lent their azure for her eyes; the moss-rose buds had made her pretty mouth; the arum lilies had uncurled their softness for her skin; and the lime blossoms had given her their frank, fresh, innocent fragrance."
Ouida would have had no vogue in these times. She violently opposed female suffrage and expressed her view that "millions of ordinary women have as little of the sage in them as of the angel."
As for the new woman, she wrote of her as "violating every law alike of common sense and of artistic fitness, and yet comes forward as a fit and proper person to make laws for others." She was strong in her views thatthe private lives of all artists are not fit objects of curiosity, and was firm in declining, in unedited language, to be interviewed. Ouida was undoubtedly an eccentric, with a golden heart, and a passion for dogs. She died in her beloved Italy, alas! in abject poverty, mainly due, I fear, to her unpractical nature and her uncurbed generosities. No one is left to tell us what became of all the lovely things by which she was surrounded in her prosperous days at the Florentine Villa Farinola. I think she rests in peace.
Not long before the end my wife received this letter from her:
"DEAR THALIA,
"I have been and am still very ill. For two days I was near death. I should grieve to leave my dear dogs. Their lives are too short in comparison with their devotion. I got your long letter after some delay and fear many letters are lost between Italy and England. I have seen a bag filled with the contents of pillar-boxes reposing in sweet solitude on the pavement of a deserted street in Florence!
"I am so glad that you and your dear husband are well and happy.... I wish I could come and see you all and the dear old country where its sons and daughtersare never content except when they are out of it.
"Love to you and Sir Squire. Believe me, always your and his admirer and friend.
"OUIDA."
Miss Braddon
I was a young actor in the country, full sixty years ago, when a new novel appeared which made the writer of it—a girl in her twenties—famous throughout the land. The book wasLady Audley's Secret. The girl was Miss Braddon. The fame of the new novel spread like wildfire and the rush for its three volumes—most novels were so published in those days—was extraordinary.
From one of the old Strand Theatre burlesques I recall words like these: "Always a lady's secret I respect, saveLady Audley's Secretwhich that deep Mudie lets out and won't let people keep."
Dickens and Thackeray were still alive and at work, as were George Eliot, Bulwer Lytton and Wilkie Collins.
Miss Braddon's own share reached more than seventy novels in more than fifty years of work. We knew her for many of those years, and loved her company, here in London, as in Switzerland and Italy.
In a long railway journey we took togetherfrom Lugano to Boulogne some anxiety arose as we neared the sea about what the "crossing" would be like. I remember Mrs. Maxwell's amusement at my wife's saying: "I don't feel comfortable about it; the small boats and fishing-smacks in harbour are too polite to each other, with their little bows and curtseys. I fear we shall find things more quarrelsome when we have crossed the bar."
The famous novelist was an open-air woman, at home in a saddle, loved to follow the hounds, and was devoted to her dogs, her cats and her birds. She adored Dickens, had great admiration for Balzac, and placed George Eliot on a lofty pedestal. The way she did her work was the oddest thing in the world. She huddled herself up in a little low chair, made a desk of her knees, and wrote for hours in that position.
Happily, she bountifully bequeathed her power over the pen to her son "Willie," who has the affection of his troops of friends.
I will close this chapter with a reference, full of kind thoughts and remembrances, to one of the most remarkable, as she was one of the most delightful, women my wife and I ever had the privilege to know—Lady Dorothy Nevill. She was a great little lady—happy, blithesome, clever, and so gay.
At her Sunday luncheon parties in Charles Street, one met everybody worth knowing and heard pretty well everything worth listening to. There assembled folk of all opinions and of every class and calling—honey gathered from many a hive.
A great little lady
Few people could have had—and kept—three such different friends as Cobden, Disraeli and Chamberlain; but the little lady knew how to deal with contradictions. Her sense of humour was as keen as a razor.
Happily for us, Lady Dorothy loved a play and rejoiced in visits to our theatre. She had a great affection for my wife. Often and often, generally in the early winter evenings, she would dismiss her carriage at our door, walk upstairs to the second floor, and sit for hours with her. When she left she declined all help or offer to be seen safely home, preferring to walk there in the dark, facing two crossings on her way, and this when she was more than eighty years of age.
Her reminiscences, edited by her son, Ralph Nevill, are delightful reading, while the characteristic portrait painted of her in early life by Watts—so happily reproduced—will tell you what she looked like. It helps you to feel that she uttered no ill of anyone.
Lady Dorothy once said to me: "One of the greatest treats I can now be given is to be taken by a strong young man to Piccadilly, there to be hoisted on to the top of a 'bus, and driven through the City to Whitechapel, with time to look in at the London Hospital on my way back."
I repeat—a great little lady.
"There is, I know not how, in the minds of men, a certain presage, as it were, of a future existence; and this takes the deepest root, and is most discoverable in the greatest geniuses and most exalted souls."—CICERO.
We have not been honoured with the friendship of distinguished members of the Church so intimately as to leave many empty chairs once filled by them, but I can write something in affectionate remembrance of a few.
J. M. Bellew
The first prominent clergyman whom we knew was that strange creature Bellew, first as the Reverend J. M. Bellew, when he preached at a church in Bloomsbury and drew large congregations, having previously enjoyed great popularity at St. Mark's, Hamilton Terrace. He was gifted with an exceptionally fine voice and a striking appearance. I never heard the death chapter from the Corinthians better read than by him—it was dramatic without being theatrical. There was, however, a pitfall into which he used to stumble when he attacked the Commandments—in the Fifthhe thundered out the first three words "Honour thy father," then dropped his voice to its softest tones, quietly murmuring, "and thy mother."
Later on, he became both friend and neighbour.
I will repeat a story he told of another neighbour, a canon of the Church, who wore the most palpable of wigs, which took every shade of colour in the sunlight, but was blindly convinced in his own mind that no one shared his secret. Bellew met this friend one morning as he was leaving his house, and suggested their proceeding together. "Delighted," said the owner of the many-coloured "jasey"; "I am going to Bond Streetto get my hair cut." The pretender went so far as to have various wigs of different lengths to aid the evident deception.
In middle life Bellew appeared as a public reader and reciter here and in America, having left the Church of England, and become a devout Roman Catholic, in which faith he died.
Henry White, the Chaplain of the Chapel Royal, Savoy, as it then was, was many a time a welcome Sunday guest, almost invariably punctual, though always begging to be forgiven should he not be. His letters, carefullysealed with the Savoy arms, were full of quotations, such as, "I cannot tell you how much I value the friendship you have allowed me to enjoy so long: 'my love's more richer than my tongue,'" while his interesting sermons were often described as "elegant extracts." His reading of the Litany was peculiarly impressive. The Baroness Burdett-Coutts was a frequent member of his restricted congregation. I left an evening party in his company long years ago, when we walked together towards our different homes. On the way I put a straight question to him on a sacred subject. His answer was frank enough: "If it is in my power to be of use to you, or indeed to any man, it can only be from my pulpit." He tried his utmost to persuade me to read the Lessons in the Chapel Royal. I firmly declined, adding that if I consented I should ask to be allowed to select them. "Even that," he said, "might be arranged."
An old, and to us, dearly-loved friend who also enjoyed his Sunday visits, was the Sub-Dean of the Chapels Royal, Canon Edgar Sheppard. Our hospitality was returned by him and Mrs. Sheppard at their quaint old home adjoining Marlborough House Chapel: and I also knew the Canon in his other home,so picturesque, in the precincts of Windsor Castle. One of his last public services was held for me when my sorrow came. His friendship had so long been valued by my wife; the kindness shown to me then, as well as by his son, the present vicar of St. Martin-in-the-Fields, dwells sacredly in my memory, and will be referred to in the final chapter of this book.
Archdeacon Wilberforce
Archdeacon Wilberforce—who belonged to the 1841 "Vintage"—was also our friend. He drew large congregations to the church of St. John the Evangelist, Westminster—that odd-looking building which looks rather like an elephant sprawling on his back with his short legs in the air. I recall an afternoon when we were the guests of Mrs. Wilberforce and himself in Dean's Yard; he took us aside and said they were asking some of their friends to linger when the party broke up, as they had a treat to follow. We gladly did so, and were well repaid, being conducted to the Abbey by the Archdeacon, and seated in the choir. Presently Sir Frederick Bridge—("Westminster Bridge ")—another old friend who has left an empty chair—broke the silence—the tones of the organ swelled out—when, from by his side in the loft and out of sight, the wonderful voice of Clara Buttsang "Abide with Me." There are moments in life, and that was one, the remembrance of which can never fade; this we felt, as afterwards we went from the Abbey in the falling light.
I recall an occasion when both Bishop Ellicott and Archdeacon Wilberforce were staying at Birchington. The Bishop was gravely ill. We had known him in the Engadine and at the Bel Alp, and had also been to those musical parties in Great Cumberland Place, to which Mrs. Ellicott and all her family were so passionately and unceasingly devoted that they seemed to fill their lives. The Bishop was always expected to be a listener. My wife drove to the bungalow where the Bishop was, to ask after him, and, to her delight, was told he would like to see her. She found the Archdeacon by his side, and as she approached his chair the Bishop was thanking him for "kind and comforting words," adding: "I hope, my dear friend, when it shall please God to take me, He will graciously grant me a little niche—andnot too near the music!"
The Archdeacon's love of animals is well known. He adored his dogs, and at a garden-party showed us the graves of little lost friends by the Cloisters, dwelling in amost interesting way on his belief in their after-life. In support of this, I recall an incident told by my old comrade, John Hare, when he had a seaside home at Overstrand. The Archdeacon visited him one day: and Hare, who was never without a dog, put a question to him.
"Do you really believe, Archdeacon," he asked, "in a hereafter for our dogs?"
"Indeed I do."
"But do you mean that I shall meet my dog again?"
"Undoubtedly—if you are good enough!"
Father Bernard Vaughan
A friend whom it was always a pleasure to welcome or to meet was Father Bernard Vaughan. We became acquainted many years ago at Manchester, where my wife and I were acting. He was then the rector of a church there, and would come and see us at our hotel, and tell us Lancashire stories. From time to time he visited us in London, and later on at our seaside home.
He never spoke a word to me on religious subjects, knowing, I suppose, that I did not chance to belong to the beautiful faith which he and his many brothers and sisters so devoutly served as priests and nuns, beginning with the eminent Cardinal. Father Bernard Vaughan attracted crowded congregations,drawn from all degrees of creed, to Farm Street, there to listen to his outspoken sermons on the Sins of Society. They were both romantic and emotional, with sentences to the effect that unless England fed the fires of religion with the fuel of faith she might wake one day to the sound of a passing bell tolling her soul's death.
The circumstances in which I first saw Dr. Boyd-Carpenter, then the Bishop of Ripon, were comical, although the scene of them was a place of worship. I have a predilection for a good sermon, and at one period made a practice of hearing the best English preachers of the day, no matter what their particular aspect of the Faith might be. On a Saturday I read inThe Timesthat the Bishop of Ripon was to preach at the Chapel Royal, Whitehall; so I determined to go and listen.
The Chapel Royal, Whitehall, exists no more, but at that time it occupied the first floor of the old banqueting hall (from one of the windows of which King Charles I stepped forth to his execution), since given over to the Royal United Services Institution. The hall was not, from the clergy's point of view, well adapted to its sacred purpose, for there was no vestry, or, at any rate, no separate entrance for the officiating minister, who could onlyenter the chapel by the staircase in the same way as the general public.
The verger's mistake
Presenting myself on a wintry morning, some time before the appointed hour, after fighting my way up the crowded staircase, I found the chapel already full, when the verger, catching sight of and recognising me, whispered that if I waited a moment he would find a seat for me among the front rows. Just then I felt someone trying to push past me, and looking down saw a small and energetic figure, the head swathed in a large white muffler, eagerly struggling to make towards the altar. The verger, prompt but polite, attempted to stop the vigorous little man. "You really can't, sir; there isn't another empty place."
What was the good man's surprise and confusion to receive the answer, in a telling stage whisper: "But I've come to preach!"
The intruder was no other than the Bishop, then in the prime of life. When at last he reached the pulpit, he preached so fine a sermon that though my watch told me it lasted only five minutes short of an hour, it seemed to occupy less than the half of one.
Another trenchant and dramatic sermon I recall was preached by Boyd-Carpenter in the Abbey soon after the death of Tennyson,when the Bishop shattered an idea which had got abroad that the great poet had no faith in an after-life. Who, I wonder, could have attributed such thoughts to the man who wrote: "I hope to meet my Pilot face to face when I have crossed the bar"? The only time I saw the Victorian Poet Laureate, a picturesque figure, was on board a Channel steamer. He passed the time between Calais and Dover on the bridge, talking with the captain and smoking a short clay pipe.
Acquaintance with the Bishop soon followed the episode at the Chapel Royal, and, I rejoice to add, warm friendship with my wife and myself both in London and at our seaside home, which lasted until his death.
There is a story told of the Bishop—which may or may not be true—of his being rudely interrupted at a public meeting by the query if he believed Jonah was really swallowed by the whale. The Bishop said that if he got to heaven he would try to find out. The man in the crowd answered loudly: "But suppose he is not there?" The Bishop at once replied: "Then you'll have to ask him." For my own part, I have always thought that Jonah's condition was like that of a vulgar tourist—he travelled much and saw little.
Speaking and reading
I remember well a happy week-end passedwith the Bishop at his palace, and a delightful drive in the snow to Fountains Abbey. It was then that he persuaded me to undertake the difficult task of saying something at a forthcoming Church Congress on "The Art of Speaking and Reading," and I devoted time and thought to so important a subject.
I began by saying that it was customary for a clergyman to preface his sermon by a text from the Bible, but that I, as an actor, would begin my address with a quotation from Shakespeare to be found in the comedy ofMuch Ado About Nothing: "Happy are they that hear their detractions and can put them to mending."
This text, if I may so call it, led to some remarks on the affinity between the words of Shakespeare and the pages of Holy Writ. The same inspired truths so abound throughout them both as to prove that the poet was a student of the Scriptures. There could be no firmer bond between Church and Stage; it must, for all time, be the strongest link, for both books are eternal.
I called to mind the care and cost lavished upon choral services in our cathedrals, the pains taken to acquire the skill melodiously to chant the Litany: why were not the same labour, the like devotion bestowed upon theteaching of young clergymen to speak audibly and to control a congregation? One could not but be amazed at glaring instances of false emphasis in the dull recital of the Order for Morning Prayer: surely such a monument of learning and piety should be spared such treatment.
I dared to add that I had heard the Bible read—now and then very beautifully, often very vilely. That I had listened to such extracts as tell of the death of Absalom, of the death of Jezebel, of Daniel in the Den, of the Prodigal's Return, read as though the moving stories were little more dramatic than so many stale problems in Euclid; and had heard St. Paul's funeral chapter so droned as to make the hallowed bones of the Apostle who bequeathed it to humanity turn in their resting-place. On the other hand, I had heard the same words read so truthfully by men who are living and men who are dead, as to be a lasting memory.
The actor and the bishop
It was natural on my part to draw attention to the resemblance which exists between the great preacher and the famous player, not only for the mighty sermons he can preach, but because, when his work is done, when he has for ever left the pulpit or the stage, the "divine spark" is extinguished; his voice,his fascination, his originality, are soon but memories; while his renown too often rests upon the imperfect records of tradition. The personality of John Knox must remain a mystery; the tragic tones of Sarah Siddons can be heard no more. What would the young parson not give to hear Martin Luther preach? What would I not give to see David Garrick act? "Into the night go one and all."
I reminded my listeners of the answer David Garrick gave to the bishop who asked him this question: "Can you tell me, sir, why it is that you players, who deal with romance, can yet profoundly move an audience, while we preachers, who deal with reality, fail to do so?" "Yes, my lord, I can. It is because we players act fiction as if it were the truth; while you preachers too often speak of truth as though it were but fiction."
Thackeray wrote: "There is an examiner of plays, and there ought to be an examiner of sermons." I would go further, and urge that every curate should pass an examination in the art of preaching before he is allowed to mount a pulpit. A bad preacher will empty a church more easily than a good preacher will fill one. It was well said, also, by an eminentminister in the Nonconformist Church, the late Dr. Parker:
"To-day the man who would preach with true and lasting effect must be sincere, intelligent, and sympathetic—in a word, he must be a man, a teacher, a friend. Preaching is the most impertinent of all impertinences if there is not behind it and round about it a sense of authority other and better than human."
The best advice I can remember was once given by my wife, in a single sentence, to a public speaker who consulted her on the subject; she said simply: "Don't be afraid of opening your mouth, and don't forget that the roof of it is Nature's sounding-board."
Bishop Boyd-Carpenter, as some may still recollect, was honoured with the personal friendship of the late Empress Frederick of Germany. In connection with that unhappy lady, the eldest daughter of Queen Victoria, and our Princess Royal, he told me an interesting story, the point of which was to be proved tragically true in later years.
The Bishop was summoned to Germany to give the Empress the consolations of religion in a grave illness. The Prince of Wales, who had hastened to the bedside of his favouritesister, in the kindness of his peace-loving heart was attempting to smooth over the notorious differences between the suffering lady and her son, the ex-Kaiser, who, as is well-known, had treated her with unfilial harshness. But the Empress knew Wilhelm too well to hope for reconciliation. She laid her hand on her brother's arm, saying sadly and earnestly: "Bertie, your country has no greater enemy than my son."
A Mohammedan legend
Among my papers I find a letter from Boyd-Carpenter, redeeming a promise which he had made over the dinner-table to look up for me a Mohammedan legend upon which he had preached a remarkable sermon:
"When God made the earth it shook to and fro till He put the mountains on it to keep it firm.
"Then the angels asked: 'O God, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than those mountains?'
"And God replied: 'Iron is stronger than the mountains, for it breaks them.'
"'And is there anything in Thy creation stronger than iron?'
"'Yes, fire is stronger than iron, because it melts it.'
"'Is there anything stronger than fire?'
"'Yes, water, for it quenches fire.'
"'Is there anything stronger than water?'
"'Yes, wind, for it puts water in motion.'
"'O, our Sustainer, is there anything in Thy creation stronger than wind?'
"'Yes, a good man giving alms: if he give with his right hand and conceal it from his left he overcomes all things.'"
The wrong train
I may here relate an unaccountable blunder I committed when on my way to do a little service for the Bishop at Bradford. At that time there were two express trains to the North, one from Euston, the other from King's Cross; both started at 1.30. Full of thought, I drove to Euston instead of to King's Cross. When I asked for a ticket there was some delay; at last it was given to me with the name of my destination written upon it in ink. I thought it strange that tickets for so important a place should be out of print, but took my seat in the train; and it was only when well beyond Rugby that I realised what I had done. Eventually, after hurried, anxious talk with the authorities at Stafford, I got out at Stockport. There, in great excitement, I ordered a special train and telegraphed home to allay anxiety. Some difficulties about the special were overcome by earnest appeals to disregard cost, as I was prepared to pay anything demanded of me, for never in my life had I failed to keep anappointment with the public, and should have been doubly distressed at breaking an engagement in which I was doing the work without any question of a fee. Eventually I reached Bradford five minutes before the time fixed for the entertainment. To add to my troubles, the confusion had driven out of my head the name of the hall where I was to appear. Fortunately, one of the flymen on the station rank remembered it, and drove me quickly to its doors as the audience was pouring in. After inquiry at an hotel hard by—the same hotel in which a few years later Irving stumbled in the hall and then fell dead—I found the Bishop. He had telegraphed to London for the cause of my absence, and, receiving no explanation, had settled to fill my place by giving his lecture on Dante; but on my appearance he drove to the hall, asked for a short delay, explained the reason, and then returned to fetch me. I dressed as if by magic, swallowed some soup, and, appearing on the platform only fifteen minutes late, was greeted with great warmth. I had never felt so pleased to face my audience.